Options
by EbonyBeach
Summary: "He takes her to a restaurant, nowhere fancy, and she wears jeans and her hair down, and he says again that he thinks she's beautiful." - A second date, post-5x13, leads to something surprising.


A/N: I started writing this about 6 months ago and just re-discovered it. It's set post-5x13, and I hope you enjoy it. Warning: rating NC-17.

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><p>He takes her to a restaurant, nowhere fancy, and she wears jeans and her hair down, and he says again that he thinks she's beautiful. As they eat he asks her about her best surgery and the passion in her voice, her eyes, both startles and charms him. He feels nervous throughout the meal, afraid of the impressions he's already made, but as they wait for dessert she jokes that she is impressed they've gotten this far into the date and his clothes are still dry, and suddenly his worry is replaced by a fierce desire to kiss her, to have her in his arms.<p>

He waits until they've finished their wine, until he's paid the bill and they're outside on the street, and then he turns to her and pulls her roughly against him, his mouth stealing the surprise from her own. Her kiss and her body feel incredible, and he doesn't know if it's the alcohol or simply the fact that she is stunning but he wants her more than he can ever remember wanting anyone. When she looks at him with those eyes, her breath sweet and heavy on his lips, he knows she wants him too, and it makes him brave.

"Come back with me," he murmurs, and whilst her nod is almost imperceptible, her dark steady gaze is trusting and sure and he needs no other sign. Their hands seem to come together on the walk home and he's painfully aware that it's not enough: he wants all of her - all her skin all over his; all her wonderful hair falling around his face as he buries himself in her; all her attention as she takes all of his.

He wonders what she's thinking because she is silent, and he hopes she's not planning her retreat. When they reach his front door and she still hasn't spoken, he decides the gentlemanly thing to do is to give her a get out, but it's difficult because he's not sure his thoughts have ever been this ungentlemanly before. "Coffee?" he asks, and then uncertainly adds: "Or I can just walk you home?"

She stares at him for a long moment and he wishes she wasn't so damn beautiful because it would make her rejection just slightly easier to take. "I... This is a second date, right? I mean, are we counting the drunken shower-sleepover thing as a date?"

He laughs nervously, unsure where this is going. "Does it matter?"

He loves the way she looks up at him, the way she bites her lip as she thinks. Her small hand is still holding his and he squeezes it slightly. "I don't usually have rules," she says at last. "I'm not a 'rules' kinda girl." No kidding - he doubts she's realized that is what makes her so attractive to him, so magnetic. "And you're not a 'rules' kinda guy, judging by the whole pen trach thing and the kissing me in exam rooms and alleyways and whatever."

For a second he wonders if she's talking about someone else because he's always thought of himself as straight and narrow, as close to the rules, to orders and commands, as he could get. But then, when it comes to her... She's completely right, of course. Nothing about their interactions, their relationship (if it can be called that) so far has been dictated by rules or etiquette or any sense of normalcy. He's still broken, really, and he shouldn't even be contemplating her, contemplating doing the things to her that he is, contemplating _loving_ her, but he just can't help himself.

This whole thought process must have shown on his face because she smiles. "I thought you might be surprised by that."

"I am," he admits, absently toying with the keys in his pocket, and the noise seems to bring them back to the point, to the heat and closeness of the moment. He realizes that if she wanted to leave she would have gone by now so he steps towards her, close enough that he can feel her breasts pressing lightly against his chest. "What were you saying about rules?" he asks, longing to kiss her but waiting for her permission, her assurance that she is staying because once he starts to fall into her, he's going to fall all the way and there'll be no stopping him.

She takes a breath, her breasts rising against his shirt, and the urge to grab her and pull her flush against him again is almost too much. "Well... people say there are certain things you should and shouldn't do on a first date."

"Like turn up drunk?"

"Yeah." She smiles, and it's a beautiful smile which lights up her eyes. Then they darken; her voice drops and she raises her free hand to his chest. "But if this is a second date... there are more options."

Owen senses that is his permission granted but she beats him to it and reaches for him, her warm mouth on his and her body arching against him. He groans at the contact - at the way her tongue and teeth feel, at the pressure of her pelvis on his - and it's an embarrassing little noise, an admission of his need for her, but he can't help it and when she moans too he decides it's high time to finally go inside. They stumble over the threshold, tearing off their jackets, their heavy breathing filling up the dark apartment and echoing back at them. He fumbles for a light switch, knocks over a pile of letters, all the while kissing her; hands roaming, hearts racing. By the time he eventually finds the switch she's half naked and it takes his breath away.

"God you're beautiful," he murmurs, taking in the curves of her breasts filling her bra, the flatness of her abdomen; unbuttoned jeans revealing matching panties and the slant of hipbones he can barely wait to follow downwards. Her hair is wild, a victim of his eager hands, and her expression so dark and sexy as she looks him over too that he can barely remain standing.

"So, coffee?" she breathes, and he laughs.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Uh huh."

"Good."

He runs his hands up her bare arms, takes her face gently in his palms and kisses her again, almost unable to believe that she is here in his apartment, in his arms, and she wants him as much as he wants her. After their last disastrous date, after the last disastrous few years of his life and the way they've ruined him, he wasn't sure he'd ever get the chance to be here with someone as incredible as Cristina Yang and he's not going to let the opportunity go to waste now.

He gently backs her towards the sofa, his mouth exploring her face and neck, loving the little moans she makes. Guiding her to sit, he leaves her with a smile as he goes to turn on a lamp and extinguish the main light, quickly picking up the things they knocked over in their haste. He sees her looking around, appraising his things: books and furniture and kitchen worktops covered in more stacks of paperwork and journals.

"I don't really have enough storage space yet," he apologizes, and then wonders if she cares about his ergonomic dilemma because right now he certainly doesn't.

"You've seen my apartment," she counters with an air of impatience he finds both chastising and irresistible, "This is pristine in my eyes. Now come back here so I can show you more of the options."

It's not long at all before they're both naked and writhing around on the sofa, kissing every bit of each other, sweaty and hot and the most aroused he thinks he's ever been. Watching, feeling her playing with his body so skilfully, he realizes suddenly that she is just as skilfully playing with his somersaulting heart; that he could so easily be falling in love with her right now, so easily it's almost a physical process and here she is, tipping him right over the edge.

That thought alone pushes him two panicked steps backwards and he struggles to sit up beneath her, holding her shoulders away with his hands, meeting her surprised gaze. "I'm working early tomorrow," he says quickly, struggling to catch his breath but even more so to find the right words, words enough to save himself but not to push her away entirely. He's not quite ready to give her everything, not yet; can't let her in all the way, can't scare her with his demons or have her witness the gruesome nightmares he's barely able to face himself.

And yet he wants her, _needs_ her, in his life and in his bed because it's been so long since he had someone to connect with, to love - both physically and in the kind of way that has been taking his breath away since the very first time he kissed her. A part of him thinks that taking Cristina Yang to bed tonight is stupid and reckless, bound to end up with both of them hurt; another part wonders if releasing some tension, both mental and sexual, might actually help him feel better, feel alive, feel _something_; the third part of him just wants to fuck her because he's a hot-blooded man and she's gorgeous and wet for him, and he can barely remember the last time he ever wanted to bury himself in someone like he does in her right now.

"I, um..." Owen struggles to find his train of thought again. "I have to be in at six and you said it's your day off, so maybe it'd be better if you didn't stay tonight."

He watches as her lovely face flickers past confused and straight to wounded, and immediately curses his ineloquence. "I mean, after now... Stay now, but then, maybe, I'll get you a cab and you can sleep at yours... So I don't wake you, in the morning," he finishes feebly, his gaze unconsciously dropping to her bare body, making his heart begin to race again.

"So you want me to stay, but not to _stay _stay?"

He finds he has trouble drawing his eyes back to hers. "Yes. I really, really want you to stay right now." He brushes his fingers down her arms and then across her breasts, mesmerized by her.

"Okay," she whispers after a long moment and he senses that she has understood; that it really is okay, for now at least. He doesn't want to think about what happens after tonight - where he goes next, both with her and alone - so he lets go of all thought, surrendering himself to her, to loving her as best he can.

However he doesn't quite get the chance because she's feisty and sexy and oh so determined, and so he finds himself not ten minutes later in his bedroom, losing himself completely in the feel of her mouth around his cock. Her hair is splayed all over him and it's an image even more erotic than he imagined it to be, so much so that he gasps through gritted teeth: "Cristina, you're... Stop, I'm gonna come..."

She glances up from between his legs and the devilish look she gives him almost finishes him off. "And that's a bad thing?" Her hands continue to work him, her tongue darting out to tease his tip, and he can barely breathe let alone answer her. Seemingly satisfied she takes him in her mouth again - her wonderful, hot, talented mouth - and when he comes a minute later it's the most powerful orgasm he's had since he can remember, so strong it makes him swear, makes his whole body quake.

"Fuck," he mutters again, aware of her climbing over him, of her nakedness all around him, of her sitting beside him and watching his return to the present.

"Option number one - check," she grins, and he reaches out a hand and flicks his finger over her nipple, quickly banishing her smile. Her skin is so soft and he wishes they knew each other better; wishes they could skip to the point where she would cuddle up to him and stroke his hair as he recovered from his high.

"Has anyone ever told you how incredible you are at that?" He sits up so he's slightly behind her, pressing his lips to her shoulder blade, his palm now covering her breast.

"Maybe." He senses her smiling, welcoming his compliment, which is meant more as a statement of fact. Moving closer, feeling her relax back against him even as her body tenses at his touch, he slides his other hand around her hip and downwards, touching her lightly and making her arch against his fingers.

"What's option two?" he asks, breathing in the scent of her hair, her skin; hoping it will remain on his sheets, his body, even after she's gone. He presses open-mouthed kisses to the side of her neck and jaw, biting her earlobe and making her whimper, the sound magnified and enveloping them in the quiet of the room. He's thought about this, about having her naked in his arms and at his mercy, for a long long time, but with the feel of her beneath his fingertips and the little noises she keeps making, her pleas for more, the slow pace he was intending on is quickly thrown aside. He starts to stroke her more heavily, longing to make her come as hard as she physically can, wanting to please her because she is beautiful and sexy and, for tonight at least, _his_. When he slides a finger inside her and hears her hiss, her breath catching, he nudges her cheek with his nose, turning her face towards his so he can kiss her properly, tongues and teeth clashing.

"Oh Owen, you're so hot," she murmurs into his mouth and suddenly he is laying her back on the bed and covering her body with his own, hands and lips everywhere, hips grinding against hers as he feels her limbs wrap around him, holding him to her even as she moves beneath him.

"I want to be in you," he whispers urgently, annoyed with himself because this was not his intention, not his option number two, but she's just so electrifying that numbers and plans and thoughts in general seem to disappear when she touches him like that, bites down on his skin, rubs herself against his thigh and moans so exquisitely at the friction.

With some kind of inner strength, some hidden patience he didn't realize he possessed, he manages to move off of her onto his side and turns her to face him; kisses her quite thoroughly as he slips a hand between them and begins to touch her again; delights in the way her body reacts to his touch, to him. In truth he's doing this to give himself time, a chance to calm down and revert to his original plan because he wants to return her favor - doesn't want to be selfish or have her think that he is. It hasn't been long at all but he's already fallen in love with this: with the pleasure of pleasuring her, of making her want him, of making her soar.

Sitting up suddenly, Owen takes her calves in his hands and pulls her to the edge of the bed. Her dark eyes convey so many things: surprise, lust, intrigue, perhaps even a hint of frustration at the loss of contact which doesn't bother him because he's about to make it up to her in what he hopes will be a big way. He kneels on the floor between her legs and smiles up at her, a smile she returns as she scoots even closer and hooks her ankles behind his back, locking their bodies together again as she leans down to kiss him.

"I thought you wanted to be in me," she murmurs as his lips move along her jaw. "Owen, I want you in me."

Oh, to hear her beg for him like that is almost too much and he quickly finds her mouth again and kisses her desperately, ravenously, like it's uncontrollable and to try and stop would cause him physical pain. "Later," he manages to say as his fingertips run over her skin, over her every curve, paying particular attention to her nipples which makes her tremble and moan against his tongue. "That comes later."

His mouth begins to move down her chest and abdomen as his fingers play between her thighs once more, and she seems at last to realize his intention. She leans back on her outstretched arms with a sigh; her head falls back, hair spilling down behind her and onto his sheets, and Owen pauses for a long moment and just looks at the image before him - at her parted lips and the way she breathes; the shapes and shadows the lamplight forms on her perfect body; the faint scar from the night they met and another one lower on her abdomen which he recognizes as a pelvic laparotomy incision - quite bizarrely he feels a sudden rush of concern for her, and for whatever pain she had once been in.

After a few seconds Cristina opens her eyes and catches him staring, but he is not ashamed: actually he grins and plunges two fingers inside her, making her gasp and utter his name. "Tell me what you like," he instructs gently, greatly enjoying this game, this driving her crazy. He presses his lips to her hipbone, the crease of her leg, her inner thigh; feels her shaking, feels one of her hands in his hair urging his mouth towards her center.

As she tells him, stuttering out words between all sorts of beautiful noises, he follows her instructions with some added creative license. She seems to approve because soon she's bucking up against him, crying out, urging him on increasingly loudly until suddenly she breaks with a sound he doubts will ever forget - the sound of the first time he made her come; the first time she came _for him_. It's exquisite and raw and he wants to swallow it with his mouth, to feel it vibrate in his throat, to feel her every muscle tense beneath him. But he can't because he's still on the floor and anyway, he doesn't know her well enough yet; doesn't know if he's allowed to be there to share in her climax, in her absolute vulnerability.

As he watches her come down, he desperately hopes someday he will be.

"Owen, that was... unbelievable."

He smiles and moves to lie down beside her, his legs hanging over the edge of the bed with hers. She turns her face to look at him, to smile back; then, to his amazement, she shuffles closer and rests her head on his chest, draping an arm across him and sighing.

And it hits him suddenly, the reason he is falling for her - she is just so surprising. Warm when she seems cold, involved when she seems indifferent; forgiving when he didn't deserve it and trusting when he asked for a second chance. She has shown him compassion when he expected nothing from her; understood him and the fact he has problems and agreed to stick around anyway. A beautiful, smart woman like her shouldn't be interested in a man like him, someone who is so messed up, and the fact that she is makes him feel that life is actually worth living, that good things can happen to wounded men and that he just might not be alone in facing his past.

And then he does something very surprising too: in the calm of his bedroom, with Cristina Yang naked and lying half on top of him, his fingers playing with her hair, he fixes his gaze on a shadowy spot on the ceiling and lets himself fall apart. It's not a conscious decision, nor is he really aware of what he's saying until it's out there and he's reeling from it, but it happens and he is as powerless to stop it as he was to resist her tonight.

"Cristina... I don't sleep. I _can't_ sleep." His voice is barely audible, his body so still it's like he's barely breathing. "I go to work, I focus, and I just about make it through each day. And then most nights I drink to help me fall asleep, and sometimes if I drink enough - and we're talking way over the legal limit - I can sleep without nightmares."

She hasn't moved either, hasn't uttered a sound, but that seems to make it easier for him to go on.

"I thought I could deal with things on my own, that I just needed time and work to take my mind off it all. But now you're here and you shift my focus at the hospital because all I want to do is look at you and talk to you and try to make you laugh, and I hope I'm not being too presumptuous but I would really like a third date."

Cristina raises her head to gaze at him, a small smile on her lips and so much compassion in her dark eyes that he falls just a little bit further. "Looking at us right now," she murmurs, "That's hardly presumptuous."

He chuckles as he assesses their current state of undress and now she is the one making him laugh, making him feel so much better already about his admission; about the weakness he has been trying to deny for so long. "Are you cold?" he asks, noting gooseflesh all over her body. "Let's get into bed."

He quickly goes to retrieve his boxers from the living room and hands her her panties too - somehow it just seems proper that they should put them back on, maybe for the conversation they're in the middle of or the fact they barely know each other, although that is rapidly changing on his part.

Once they are comfortable lying facing one another beneath the sheets, she takes his hand and voices the thoughts he has been struggling to put into words for the past few minutes whilst using underwear and warmth as an excuse to plan the next part of his speech. "You have been through a _lot_, Owen, and it's okay not to work through it all on your own. Do you think you should maybe go talk to someone? A specialist psychiatrist?"

And she makes it all sound so easy, like it's the smallest deal in the world and not the cowardly get-out he usually labels therapy as, that he just nods and it's quite a long moment before he can swallow the lump in his throat to speak. "Yes. I think that's the next step. I think... Thank you."

"What for? I haven't done anything."

There are so many things he could say - like thank you for being here, for being interested, for being beautiful - but he doesn't want to scare her with the true depth of his feelings just yet so instead he says: "For saying yes and giving me another chance. I'm sorry this has all gotten so serious. I don't know why all that came out just then - I guess I surprised myself."

He gazes at her, runs his index finger down her cheek and across her lips, a very intimate moment that just feels so right neither of them think twice about it. "You surprise me," he says tenderly.

"I'm glad. I hope it won't surprise you to know that I want a third date. I can't imagine what you've been through and I don't want you to have to face it alone anymore."

"Really?"

"Yeah." She shuffles closer until her body is pressed along his, her breath on his lips and the scent of her hair overwhelming him again. "Owen, I don't know what it is but... I just can't walk away from you. I want you to get better. I want... you."

And he smiles then because she is smiling, and because he feels like she has just transformed the living hell he is used to into a walk in the park where they can stroll along together, hand in hand. It's more than he could ever have hoped for when he picked her up earlier tonight and it confirms without a doubt that his first impression of her was absolutely spot-on: there is something special about Cristina Yang, something magic, and she is willing to share that something with him so that he can begin his long road to recovery.

If that isn't reason to fall completely in love with someone, he doesn't know what is.

"Before I go home tonight," she is saying now, drawing him back to the present as her fingers begin to roam all over his bare skin, "I need you to fuck me. I need you to fuck me so hard that the bed breaks, and I need you to keep going until I feel like I've lost my mind. Can you do that?"

Her words are hot in his mouth, her kisses brief but ablaze, and he reacts the only way he knows how: complete submission.

"Option number three, coming right up."


End file.
